The Idler in France eBook

This conversation suggested the following lines, which
I wish I could translate into French verse to give
to Madame C——­:

GRAY HAIRS.

Snowy blossoms of the
grave
That now o’er
care-worn temples wave,
Oh! what change hath
pass’d since ye
O’er youthful
brows fell carelessly!
In silken curls of ebon
hue
That with such wild
luxuriance grew,
The raven’s dark
and glossy wing
A richer shadow scarce
could fling.
The brow that tells
a tale of Care
That Sorrow’s
pen hath written there,
In characters too deeply
traced
Ever on earth to be
effaced,
Was then a page of spotless
white,
Where Love himself might
wish to write.
The jetty arches that
did rise,
As if to guard the brilliant
eyes,
Have lost their smoothness;—­and
no more
The eyes can sparkle
as of yore:
They look like fountains
form’d by tears,
Where perish’d
Hope in by-gone years.
The nose that served
as bridge between
The brow and mouth—­for
Love, I ween,
To pass—­hath
lost its sculptured air.
For Time, the spoiler,
hath been there.
The mouth—­ah!
where’s the crimson dye
That youth and health
did erst supply?
Are these pale lips
that seldom smile,
The same that laugh’d,
devoid of guile.
Shewing within their
coral cell
The shining pearls that
there did dwell,
But dwell no more?
The pearls are fled,
And homely teeth are
in their stead.
The cheeks have lost
the blushing rose
That once their surface
could disclose;
A dull, pale tint has
spread around,
Where rose and lily
erst were found.
The throat, and bust—­but,
ah! forbear,
Let’s draw a veil
for ever there;
Too fearful is ’t
to put in rhyme
The changes wrought
by cruel Time,
The faithful mirror
well reveals
The truth that flattery
conceals;
The charms once boasted,
now are flown,
But mind and heart are
still thine own;
And thou canst see the
wreck of years,
And ghost of beauty,
without tears.
No outward change thy
soul shouldst wring,
Oh! mourn but for the
change within;
Grieve over bright illusions
fled,
O’er fondly cherish’d
hope, now dead,
O’er errors of
the days of youth,
Ere wisdom taught the
path of truth.
Then hail, ye blossoms
of the grave,
That o’er the
care-worn temples wave—­
Sent to remind us of
“that bourn,
Whence traveller can
ne’er return;”
The harbingers of peace
and rest,
Where only mortals can
be blest.